


Everyone Has Needs

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock has always been the needy one, but he discovers that Molly has a few of her own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a few months since I've posted anything - I've had a very long case of writer's block. I hope it's over, and I hope you enjoy!

It had been a particularly gruelling day for Dr. Molly Hooper. In fact, it had been a particularly gruelling week. She had just arrived home on Friday evening following a long day, the last in a week long series of overtime shifts. And the cherry on top of this devastating day had been the autopsy of a three year old who had tried to make friends with the wrong stray dog. The child’s mother had been hospitalized with multiple bite wounds, but the little girl had not been quite so fortunate. The dog was about to be euthanized, and the husband and father of the victims looked as if he yearned for the same release. Yes, a long and devastating day! All Molly wanted to do was lie down in a warm bath, scented with something pleasant, and then crawl into bed and sleep through the following day. Unfortunately, she accomplished only half her goal.

 

The sun was barely up the next morning when the still exhausted pathologist was awakened by the insistent signalling of her mobile phone. Looking at the caller ID she was surprised to see the call was from Sherlock Holmes, unrequited love of her life and undisputable pain in the arse. The fact that he was calling, and not texting, was surprising. Sherlock didn’t like giving his victims the chance to argue - he preferred to issue orders by text. With a sigh, Molly pressed the button to accept the call.

 

“Where the bloody hell are you, Dr. Hooper? I’ve been texting you for ages!”

 

“Where do you think I am at this hour on a Saturday morning, you git! I’m in bed! And I intend to stay here!”

 

“No time to argue, Molly. I need you to get over to Bart’s and wrap up those experiments I was working on. They are time sensitive, and need to be completed by nine o’clock. And I need you to summarize the results, and forward your report to Mycroft and myself.”

 

“Good luck with that, Sherlock. I told you I’m staying right where I am.”

 

“This is important, Molly. I need you. You can’t possibly be doing anything important at this hour of the morning!”

 

“That depends on what you consider important, Sherlock. Maybe I just need some rest and recreation.”

 

“What is it, Molly - rest or recreation?” 

 

“How do you know I’m alone? Maybe I have company, and maybe we’re busy - resting and recreating!”

 

There was a slightly extended period of silence from the other end as Sherlock Holmes considered the possibility that his pathologist actually used her bed for other than sleeping. He then cleared his throat before saying, “I know you’re bluffing, Molly. I can tell from the timber of your voice. Now, get up, get dressed, and get busy.”  
“Why can’t you go to Bart’s?” she asked, even though she had already given up the fight, and was slowly moving her covers aside.

 

“Got a case. Lestrade called a couple of hours ago. Might be interesting, a six or seven. Let me know about the results of the experiments.” He managed to sign off before she could say another word of protest.

 

It was just two hours later that Molly was in her lab at Bart’s, sending off the results of the experiments, and her conclusions, to the consulting detective and his brother. For the life of her she could not figure out what the British government could find so important about the growth rate of a rare fungus in near Arctic conditions, but, evidently Sherlock and Mycroft considered it of some concern. She hit the “SEND” button, transmitting the documents, and was looking forward to a return to her comfy and warm bed. But her dreams were dashed when her mobile signalled an incoming text.

 

I NEED YOU TO GO TO BAKER ST AND CLEAN OUT THE FRIDGE - SH

 

NO! - MH

 

MRS H ALMOST MISTOOK MY EXPERIMENTAL BRAIN TISSUE FOR PATE. SHE IS ANGRY ENOUGH TO THREATEN ME WITH EVICTION - SH

 

SHE WOULD NEVER EVICT YOU - MH

 

PERHAPS NOT, BUT SHE COULD WITHHOLD TEA AND FRESH BAKED BISCUITS - SH

 

FINE, I’LL GO. BUT I’M DOING THIS FOR MRS H, NOT YOU - MH

 

GOOD. JUST DON”T EAT ANY SNACKS SHE MAY OFFER YOU AS I AM NOT SURE WHAT ELSE SHE FOUND IN THE FRIDGE!- SH

 

It was after eleven by the time the poor woman finished with the fridge at Sherlock’s flat. She had filled a cooler with human offal, Sherlock’s experimental media, and was packing up to leave, heading back, yet again, to Bart’s to dispose of the dangerous waste. Unfortunately, her mobile once again went off.

 

I NEED YOU TO DO ME A FAVOUR - SH

 

HOW UNUSUAL! - MH

 

SARCASM DOESN’T SUIT YOU, MOLLY - SH

 

When he didn’t receive an immediate reply, the detective continued.  
THERE IS A CREDIT CARD IN MY DESK DRAWER. TAKE IT AND PICK UP A PRESENT FOR MY MOTHER - SH

 

WHAT!?!? - MH

 

I DON’T KNOW, THAT’S WHY I’M ASKING YOU TO DO IT. - SH

 

NOT “WHAT” MEANING WHAT SHOULD I GET HER? YOU INSUFFERABLE GIT. I MEAN WHY THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU ASKING ME TO DO THIS. SHE’S YOUR MOTHER! - MH

 

I DO KNOW THAT, MOLLY. AND I WANT TO GET HER SOMETHING NICE, SOMETHING WHICH WILL SHOW HER THAT I CARE. FOR ONCE, AT LEAST. YOU ARE THE OBVIOUS CHOICE TO MAKE SUCH AS SELECTION, AS YOU ARE NICE, AND YOU CARE. - SH

 

YOU REALLY ARE A PIECE OF WORK. HOW MUCH CAN I SPEND? - SH

 

AS MUCH AS YOU DEEM APPROPRIATE, MOLLY. BUT BEAR IN MIND THAT HER FAVORITE GIFT WAS A GOLDEN PAINTED MACARONI PICTURE FRAME THAT I MADE IN PRESCHOOL. - SH

 

CHEAP BASTARD! - MH

 

HALF CORRECT. MY MOTHER WILL ATTEST TO THE FACT THAT I AM NOT A BASTARD. - SH

 

Molly foraged in the desk for the credit card, and finally found one of those infamous black cards with the ultra high credit limits. She smiled as she thought of the damage she could do with one of those things as she tucked it into her purse and headed out. Before she made it to the tube she passed an interesting little shop full of antiques and collectibles, and decided to start her shopping expedition. Almost immediately she found a lovely antique cameo, set in gold with four perfect pearls in compass point positions in the bezel. It was a bit unusual in the fact that the image was not of an elegant lady’s profile with cascading curls, but a beautifully carved bouquet of violets. Each flower and leaf was delicately rendered, with a ribbon circling the small bouquet and trailing away as if floating on a gentle breeze. Sherlock’s mother’s name was Violet, and the brooch seemed the perfect gift for an elegant and lovely woman such as she. Molly may have winced a bit as she looked at the price tag, but if Sherlock Holmes had to eat beans on toast for some little time to pay for it, all the better. She completed her purchase, and hastily made her way back to Bart’s. Just in time for another incoming text.

 

ARE YOU AT BART’S YET? - SH

 

JUST ARRIVED. I’M GOING TO DISPOSE OF YOUR EXPERIMENTAL MATERIAL AND HEAD HOME TO BED. - MH

 

I NEED YOU TO STAY. LESTRADE IS SENDING A BODY AND I NEED YOU TO DO THE AUTOPSY. - SH

 

I’M NOT ON DUTY. DR. SCOTT WILL DO IT. - MH

 

SCOTT IS AN IMBECILE. YOU ARE NOT. I NEED YOU. - SH

 

Molly Hooper sighed, a sigh of defeat. She would have killed to hear those last three words in another context, but she realized that would never happen. So she simply answered -

 

OKAY - MH

 

The body arrived in just a few minutes, and the pathologist quickly set to work. There was no outward sign of injury, but the corpse’s facial features indicates a severe level of discomfort. Upon closer examination, the muscles seemed to suffer from an extreme degree of atrophy, and the lungs indicated stress. When Molly ran the blood panels, she tested for a wide spectrum of substances, finding, among other things, a high level of creatine kinase, and potassium, among other things. The urine found in the cadaver was a dark brown in color. The stomach contents indicates that she eaten her last meal hours ago, and much of this had already been digested beyond recognition. What little remained she identified as quail, hardly a common meal for a city dwelling bonds broker. Molly would bet her life on the premise that the unfortunate woman had been poisoned, most likely by conium maculatum, more commonly known as hemlock, but no trace of this plant was found in her stomach contents. She typed up her findings, and once again prepared to head for home, only to be interrupted once again by the annoying beep of her mobile.

 

ANY FINDINGS? - SH

 

POISON. I SUSPECT HEMLOCK FROM SUBSTANCES FOUND IN THE BLOOD AND URINE, BUT HAVE FOUND NO TRACE OF THE ACTUAL POISON. - MH

 

HAD SHE EATEN QUAIL? - SH

 

YES! I FOUND TRACES AMONG STOMACH CONTENTS.- MH

 

TEST IT FOR HEMLOCK SEEDS. WILL EXPLAIN LATER. - SH

 

Molly let out her eighty-seventh sigh of the day, and set about performing the test. It came as no surprise to her that she found hemlock in the quail flesh, which she immediately reported to the detective via text, and awaited his reply, which arrived almost before she had sent her text.

 

EXCELLENT! ARE YOU HEADING HOME? - SH

 

IS THAT A TRICK QUESTION? HAVE YOU GOT SOMETHING ELSE FOR ME TO DO, YOU GIT? - MH

 

THANK YOU FOR ASKING. I NEED YOU TO PICK UP MY DRY CLEANING AT THAT PLACE AROUND THE CORNER. USE MY CARD. - SH

 

I’M NOT DELIVERING IT TO YOUR FLAT! I’M GOING HOME! - MH

 

FINE. I’LL PICkUP TAKEAWAY AND JOIN YOU THERE. - SH

 

Molly quickly put on her coat, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. She only had one more errand to run, and then it was home to bed. Or rather, home to Sherlock and probably spicy Indian food, his favorite. She almost wished she could skip the food, and just go for Sherlock and bed, but she knew that would never happen. Besides, she was hungry.

 

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the steps of her building as she walked slowly down the street, burdened with three custom tailored suits which were probably worth more than her entire wardrobe. And possibly her furniture, and jewelry. Which brought to mind that mysterious black American express card in her purse. She grunted a bit as she remembered that the arsehole still owed her multiple cab fares. But her depression lifted as soon as she saw him. Just as it always did. He may not ever be hers, but she lived for these moments when she could spend some down time with him, sharing takeaway and watching crap telly. Neither said a word as they climbed the stairs to her first floor flat.

 

But the put-upon pathologist’s endless patience finally ran out when the man flung his coat on a chair, flopped on her couch, and said, “I need tea, Molly. It’s been a long day.”

 

“Really? A long day, huh? Imagine that.”

 

“I sense some discontent, Molly. Aren’t you even curious about the poison victim? Her husband is the chef at an upscale restaurant which she owed. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one kissing the cook. His paramour is a purveyor of gourmet foodstuffs. Quail is among the specialty meats she supplies to the restaurant. Knowing that the wife was especially partial to the chef’s honey roasted quail, she hand-raised one bird, feeding it consistently on hemlock seeds. The chef himself does not care for the fowl, so she knew he was safe. When he came into her facility looking for a bird to prepare for his wife’s birthday, she killed and dressed the lethal weapon herself, and sent him off home to his wife none the wiser. The poor woman died an agonizing death, but at least now we know how, and at whose hand. The food purveyor will go to prison, and the chef will inherit the restaurant. And a large insurance settlement. Isn’t love grand?”

 

“Interesting, but I don’t really care, except for the fact that I will never order quail in a restaurant again!”

 

“Have you ever ordered quail in a restaurant, Molly. To my knowledge you seem to favor fish and chips.”

 

“And yet, you brought that spicy Indian food that you favor! Again!”

 

“Dr. Hooper, are you trying to make some kind of point? You seem put out.”

 

“Put out? Why should I be put out? I spent my day off, after an exhausting week, not lying in my bed, as was my intent, but, once again, catering to your needs!” The pathologist pulled herself up to her full height, which was not overly impressive, and did her best pompous Sherlock impersonation. “Molly, I need you to finish my experiments. I need you to clean my fridge. I need you to buy my mother a present. And do an autopsy. And pick up my bloody laundry!” Then, as quickly as she had drawn herself up, she seemed to collapse into herself. Her voice shrank just as her stature had, so that the words were barely audible. “You need! You need! What about what I need, Sherlock?”

 

The tall man looked down at the woman who meant so much to him, more, certainly, than she knew, and more, he was beginning to believe, than he knew himself. And he braced himself for the answer as he said, “What is it you need, Molly?”

 

But, even as prepared as he was, he had hardly expected her answer, given so quietly and honestly, and born just as much out of frustration as courage. “Just you.” 

 

Her words, spoken so softly, hit him like a ton of bricks. He knew that she had fancied him for quite some time, but he thought that phase of their relationship had passed after his fake death, his even more fake engagement, his murder of a magnate, and his many transgressions. But as he studied her downcast eyes, he realized that Molly was not speaking of needing him to reach a tall shelf or open an obstinate jar of pickles. Or even for a quick roll in the hay, pleasurable in the short run, but hardly truly satisfying. No, she was speaking of a real need. For him, Sherlock Holmes! Molly Hooper knew him, perhaps better than anyone else in this world. His parents knew him as their precocious and spoiled child. Mycroft knew him as an intellectual rival. John knew him well enough to grow impatient with his foibles, and lecture him on his faults. But Molly had known him longer than John. She saw him when others didn’t. And, despite all this, she not only wanted him, but needed him. And this brought home the realization, long held at bay, that he needed her every bit as much. And not just to pick up his dry cleaning. But, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake, or worse yet, allow her to make one. When he spoke, his voice was low, and quite serious. “Are you sure, Molly? Absolutely sure?”

 

Molly lifted her eyes to gaze at him, hardly expecting his answer. But when she saw the uncertainty in his eyes, and the concern written on his face, she knew everything had changed between them. “Yes. Absolutely.”

 

“I’m not very good at this, Molly. I’ll probably ruin everything.”  
“Nonsense! You can do anything you put your mind to. And, besides, I love you far too much to let you mess this up!”

 

“I’ll be counting on that, my love,” he said as he pulled her in for a long kiss, gentle and passionate at the same time, with all the promise of so much more to follow. When they finally disengaged, he leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Now, didn’t you say something about wanting to go to bed?”

 

“Sherlock, what about the food? We haven’t eaten anything for…”

 

“Right now, I may want food, but I need to go to bed. With you. Now!”

 

“See! Once again, it’s all about what you need, Sherlock.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. It was you you first expressed this particular need, remember? And spicy chicken is excellent for breakfast. Or so I’ve heard.”

 

“Really? Where did you hear that?”

 

“Don’t really remember,” he said with a laugh as he picked her up in his arms and headed towards the bedroom. “Just don’t argue, or next time it’ll be spicy quail!”

 

Molly giggled as she was carried away, literally and figuratively.


End file.
